


It ends tonight

by orphan_account



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Gang Violence, M/M, Smut, bartender!Silver, hitman!Flint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:21:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Flint is a hitman for the mafia and wants out.  One more job and he gets his wish, one way or another.  His boyfriend John Silver has somethings to say about which way this all goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It ends tonight

**Author's Note:**

> I have little clue what this is, but hey...was thinking of possible modern AU plots and sort of wanted to write a short little thing that I could try to illustrate key scenes from. This is what happened. I apologise that it is not beta'd and also for the first scene...I am new to writing smut and fluff and stuff like that so I apologise if it is horrifically bad.

The cold brick wall scraping against John’s back was a stark contrast to the hot, wet tongue crashing into his mouth. Demanding and ravaging, tasting of blood and whiskey.

There were hands in his hair, grasping, pulling, yanking his head back to expose the length of his throat. That tongue slicked its way up, over the sensitive skin of his neck, disappearing behind a row of bared teeth as the other man grinned at the wanton noise his action had drawn from John’s lips.

There was no time to draw breath, to resupply his lungs with oxygen before the frantic mouth was once again on his. Between the lack of air and the alcohol seemingly seeping from the tongue penetrating his mouth, John’s head was growing hazy.

Absently, somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if James Flint had ever actually just said ‘hello’ by way of greeting.

It hardly mattered. This way was much more fun.

James’ hands were untucking John’s shirt from his belt, almost tearing the buttons off as he worked it open. Firm palms stroked over his torso, up his abs to push the fabric from his body. All the while those lips never left his skin. James sucked marks into his neck, biting hard enough to leave bruises, maybe to draw blood.

John would have grazes all over his back and shoulders from the rough brick behind him, but the sensation of it combined with the calloused hands exploring his chest was just the right side of painful.

Somehow he had enough mental capacity left to pull James’ shirt from his body. Even enough to notice how remarkably clean it was - only a small blood stain on the right cuff from whoever had been James’ latest victim.

The moment the garment hit the floor, John’s palms were clasping the firm, rippling muscles of James’ back. He could feel them tight and strong beneath his hands as James braced himself enough to grind his hips powerfully forward. John’s body arched involuntarily in response, his head thrown back against the wall. James took the opportunity to bite down over John’s jugular, eliciting a shiver that seemed to run right from his foot out the top of his head.

James grinned against his throat and rolled his hips forward again, clearly relishing the deep moan it drew from his partner.

“You need to lose those fucking clothes, right now.” John growled, hands already making short work of James’ belt and all-but yanking his smart black trousers to the ground, taking with them James’ plain white boxers.

John thought he had been impressively quick in disrobing his lover. James proved him wrong. In perhaps half the time it had taken John, James had his jeans pulled entirely from his body, grinning like a feral beast when he realised John was wearing no underwear.

John grinned back, “Bartending is sweaty work.” He offered by way of explanation.

In truth, he never wore underwear when working the bar these days, just in case of moments like these.

Kicking out of his shoes, James grabbed up John and his trousers and lay them out in a crumpled heap on the concrete ground.

“Your bed awaits.”

That drew an easy laugh from John, who nodded courteously and let James take him in his arms to lay him on the clothes. They offered little protection from the hard ground, but somehow fucking in an alley seemed that bit more decent when there was a makeshift bed involved.

Reaching behind the dumpster, James withdrew the bottle of lube they had been keeping there since their second encounter and wasted no time in tipping some out onto his hands. John reached up to entwine their fingers, massaging the slick substance over James’ fingers. The motion alone sent clouds of filthy pleasure drifting over James’ eyes.

It only intensified as he watched John squirm beneath him in anticipation when those fingers found their way to tantalise his hole, hovering just above his entrance.

“It’s - fuck - been a while.” John breathed as James slipped a first finger in.

“I've been busy.” Another finger and John was panting heavily.

“I thought maybe you’d…” John gasped as the third slid up into him. Stars danced around the corners of his vision.

“Died?” James finished for him, moving his fingers delicately to open John up. “I almost did. But then I thought about you. About you hot and tight around me. And I knew I couldn’t yet because I had this…” He thrust up carefully and John cried out, “…waiting for me.”

John grasped James’ strong, muscled forearms, nails raking over the freckled skin as James continued to move inside him, slowly, almost lazily, stretching. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“Fuck, James…” He panted desperately, “I’ve been waiting three fucking months for you. Don’t you dare make me wait any longer!”

James laughed softly and John was struck with how that laugh always sounded like it was the first in a very long while. It probably was. Did hitmen have much to laugh about? Maybe…James didn’t though. Nor did he. He hadn’t laughed since James last left, unless fake laughter to charm customers at the bar and draw tips from them counted.

The thick, long fingers eased out of John languidly, leaving him feeling empty, aching and desperately in need of more. James obliged.

He pressed slowly into him, breath hitches and a small moan escaping his lips as Silver clenched back. He eased in at first, then started rolling his hips into short, shallow thrusts. John moaned and scratched at James’ skin, clasping any part of him he could get his hands on.

John was quite sure he was throwing incoherent expletives at his lover, demanding he stop this relentless teasing, because James was almost cackling above him, alternating the laughter with soft moans of his own.

Finally it came, the first real thrust. Hard and deep and enough to make John scream with pleasure. James grunted with each thrust, driving into him with unbridled power.

“You’re fucking perfect around me.” He growled, taking John’s lips with his own as he continued to drive into him. There was enough force there to bruise - something interesting to try explaining to Max when he next worked a shift with her. John clenched and began meeting James’ rhythm with his own roll of his hips. James let out an exquisitely raw moan.

“Ah God!” He grabbed John’s hair,

“You’re hair’s getting so long.” James breathed, twisting the sweat-soaked curls in his clenched fist tight enough to send bright sparks of pain flying across John’s scalp.

“I’ve been busy. Haven’t had time…” John arched as James thrust deeper, harder, “Ah! Jesus!”

“You’ve lost weight.”

John didn’t answer. James was right. He had lost weight. He hadn’t been eating properly. He had been drinking too much coffee, too much alcohol, too little water. He hadn’t slept properly in months, not since his last encounter with James. Every time the man left, the knowledge that he might never come back ripped at John, tore him from the inside out.

One day James could walk out that door and never return. Killed before he could get his mark. Shot down or thrown off a building or run over or who the fuck knows what. John knew this. Had known it since James made clear his job.

The killing didn’t bother John. Never had. So James was a hitman. He was still James, and he wasn’t exactly going to be hitting someone so far off the mafia’s radar as John. But the unknowing. The fact James might die alone and leave John forever waiting in this alley. That bothered him.

So, he hadn’t eaten, hadn’t really slept, hadn’t had his hair cut or bought new clothes or changed his bed sheets. Not in months. And if James left again after tonight for another three months, John would do the same. Again and again, cycling down paths of self-destruction until one of them was dead.

But all that shit could wait. Right now all John knew or cared about was James moving inside him, sending wave after wave of electric pleasure coursing through his veins.

James reached behind John’s hips to lift them off the ground, a change in angle that made John cry out in ecstasy. It was unbearable. He pumped relentlessly. Deep and powerful movements that John could have sworn would tear him in two, and both halves would be left giddy afterwards.

“Come for me, my poodle.” He whispered. A ridiculous pet name adopted after their first year of this, whatever this was. But when added to Flint’s hand moving from his hair to tug on his cock, that was all it took. John yelped and came over their chests with a loud cry that echoed off the empty brick walls.

James buried his head against John’s shoulder as he thrust up one final time, deeper and slower, letting out a deep moan as he came inside John only moments later. He collapsed onto John, rendering them a sweaty, panting mess of entangled limbs.

John reached out from beneath James’ body and pointed a trembling hand towards the ajar back door.

“Shower.”

———

Happy was not a word James threw around lightly. It was a tentative thing so easily lost and so rarely found. But here, laying with his head upon John’s lap and fingers tangled in the long black tresses, he was quite certain he could describe himself as happy.

“How have things been?”

“Mundane.” John replied, “Mr. Neunan got a new waitress. Upsizing, apparently. Cut my wages to cover it.”

_Why not get a new job?_ He wanted to ask. Would have asked. But James knew the answer. John wouldn’t leave because James might not be able to find him. He had been working at that bar, living above it at the cost of half his wages, for over half a decade. Had moved in to this dingy, small apartment only days before their first meeting.

__

_It was meant to be a simple job. It had been a simple job. But James had got distracted after shooting one of the hit’s guards. Saw Miranda’s face. Saw the bullet wound through her head. Saw Thomas and the knife slicing through his throat. Didn’t see the man behind him with a gun aimed at his head._

_Charles took him out just as he pulled the trigger and the bullet missed, hitting his lower back instead._

_James received an earful after the raid and staggered his way to this alley. The same alley he had been staggering to after raids for ten years. But that night it had been different. A young man, brilliant blue eyes and curly black hair, had been taking out the trash. Saw him. Spoke to him. Crouched before him like he wasn’t covered in blood and offered to take him inside._

_He didn’t even flinch when James informed him that most of the blood didn’t belong to him. Didn’t ask who it belonged to either. Just got out his fucking Macbook and found a YouTube video on how to stitch up bullet wounds, then spent the whole night chatting and showing James weird videos he found on the internet. Making James laugh for the first time since Thomas was taken from him._

_His abs ached from the unfamiliar sensation the next day. His heart ached more._

__

“It was five years today.” James’ quiet voice penetrated the silence. He was watching his own fingers stroke through the drying curls. Those same fingers had held the gun to end an innocent man’s life only a few hours before. His only crime being to owe money to the wrong people.

“That long?” John muttered, surprise only weakly tinging his pained voice. James hated to hear him talk like that. Like he always did now once the afterglow wore off. Melancholy. He hated hearing it tarnish that velvet voice, and hated even more knowing it was because of him. Because he was going to leave and John knew it.

He always left now. When John went downstairs to clean up the bar in the morning, James spent a few hours up in his room with his things. Sleeping on his bed and burying his head against the pillow so rich with John’s scent, reading the new books John had acquired in his time away, looking at the photograph of them John kept in his sock drawer.

The only photograph of them. Taken one evening when they tried dating for a time. Almost two years after their encounters started. At first, probably for at least a year, they would just fuck. Then they started to talk afterwards. Talk for hour upon hour about everything and nothing and whatever there was left to discuss in between.

Finally, they met up outside of the alley. In daytime before the bar opened or in the evening on one of John’s rare days off. Got coffee. Went to a museum together. To see a movie. Proper dates. Real life.

James warned him, time and again he warned him. It was dangerous. _He_ was dangerous. John said he didn’t care. Said he didn’t give a fuck about the killing or the danger or who James had to be in his line of work.

That was a mistake. It had all been a terrible mistake.

John learned that the hard way.

After that, James went back to leaving in the morning while John was working. He never stayed longer than one night and never left a trace of himself in that room. Except for the photo. The corners of it were frayed and it was smudged from damp in places. James couldn’t say if they were his tears or John’s.

Tearing himself from his memories, James sighed and pushed himself up off John’s lap. Tonight he couldn’t even stay until dawn. He wouldn’t get to hold John in his arms while he slept, to hear his breath even out as he drifted off or his quiet whimpers as he dreamt.

“You’re leaving?”

“I have a big job.” James replied, pulling on his boots.

John said nothing. He never did at this stage. He just accepted James’ work. Instead, the curly haired man reached over to the chest of drawers to pull a cigarette from the top, lighting it and taking a deep drag. James frowned. He was supposed to have quit.

James stood and stared for a moment at the moulding wallpaper, “This is the last one.”

John stared up at him, cigarette hanging limp in his fingers.

“You mean it?”

Running a hand through his hair, James sighed and shook his head.

“After losing Thomas, losing Miranda, almost losing you…”

His eyes flicked down to John’s left leg. He desperately needed a new prosthetic. That one was cheap and worn and didn’t fit properly. It never had. James wanted to buy him one. He had the money. But anything that tied him to John was a death sentence for his lover.

“I can’t do it anymore. This life. Living it…it will kill everyone I care about.”

“I’m surprised they’ll let you leave.” John said after a long pause, taking another drag from the cigarette.

“We brokered a deal.”

With that, James opened the door and gazed down the dark steps that led back into the kitchen and from there out into the night. He paused, staring into that darkness, before adding,

“Don’t wait for me. Live your life for yourself.”

John smiled sadly after him, “Always do.”

———

The poor men didn’t know what had hit them. One moment just relaxing outside their warehouse, the next at knife point. John just didn’t have it in him to apologise though.

It took less than five minutes to extract from them the code to the top floor entrance. He had seen James enter through the front door, having tailed him out of the alley for a good few miles (Jesus, for a hitman he was unobservant!).

By John’s reckoning, if he started at the top floor and James at the bottom, they might meet somewhere in the middle. Unless one or both of them was dead before that point… He chose not to linger on that all-too sobering thought as he flipped the safety off his Beretta and headed up the metal stairs.

———

One floor down. Two to go.

The ground floor had, fortunately, been largely devoid of competent guards. A half dozen sober men, two or three high ones, and their respective whores. James cut as many of them down with his machete as possible. Not knowing how many would be waiting on the two floors above, he would really rather not waste ammo just yet.

Eliminate the new gang in town. No back up, no loose ends. That was the deal Teach offered him. Do that and he was free. Or, more likely, try to do that and he was dead.

In either case, it was all going to end tonight.

With two more floors to go, the night could still go either way.

The second floor had the same layout as the first. A long corridor with various rooms leading off it. He steadily passed each room, clearing it of life before moving on. He shot a lone guard in the corridor. Hit him in the stomach and moved to the next room. Empty. But two more men in the one on the left. They were close enough to use his machete. Two rounds saved. One door left on this floor.

Before he could move towards it, searing pain erupted from his right hand and moments later his shoulder. Two shots, two bullets. His blade clattered to the floor.

The guard in the corridor wasn’t dead. Not yet. One more shot to the head from James’ pistol and he was, but with two gunshot wounds to James’ favoured side, the odds had suddenly fallen distinctly out of his favour. As he turned back, he met with the butt of a gun, sending him sprawling across the metal floor. Blunt force wound to the head.

The odds were getting progressively worse.

Glaring up at his attacker, a senior member of the gang, maybe even their leader, sneered down at him and levelled a pistol to his forehead.

James closed his eyes with a smile.

At last the end.

The gunshot was loud, but not as loud as James expected given the close quarters. But then again, it hadn’t come from the gun in front of his eyes.

The man toppled over, almost perfectly circular hole through his skull, to reveal a bloodied and panting form behind him.

John grinned and wiped a trail of sweat from his chin.

“Hi.”

“You shit!” Flint scrambled to his feet and immediately began checking John for serious injuries, ignoring the shooting pain from his shoulder.

“Hey! I just saved your freckled ass!” John cried back incredulously, stilling James’ hands with his own so he could inspect the shoulder wound.

“You shouldn’t have come.” James felt panic rising when he saw the deep crimson spreading over the fabric covering Silver’s left leg, “Do you have any idea how fucking…wait! You killed the entire upper floor?!”

John shrugged with attempted nonchalance and poorly veiled smugness.

“I’m a pretty good shot.” He added, waving the gun in a way that made James really hope the safety was on.

“Apparently so.” He replied. After John’s ‘accident’ at the hands of some of James’ many enemies, he had insisted the younger man learn to shoot and bought him that gun.

Reaching out, John gently took James’ cheek in one hand and brushed some blood from it.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand love or any shit like that. All I know is that without you, I’m irrelevant. If you’re gonna die, then I’m gonna be dying right along side you. And if you’re gonna live, then I want to be there to make sure you stay the fuck alive.”

“John…”

A sudden screeching of cars outside drew their attention.

“They must have called in the rest from their bar nearby!” James ran to the window, peering through the dirty glass onto the tarmac below.

“How many?”

“Twenty, give or take.” He turned back to John and tossed him a clip of ammo, “Coming through the front door.”

Loading his gun he joined his lover.

The clattering of boots in the corridor below rang out through the empty space. A few moments and they would burst out onto this floor.

“James?” John’s voice was too calm.

“Yeah?”

“When this is over, can we get fro-yo for dinner?”

James barked out a laugh, “Yeah. Yeah, we can get fro-yo.”

“With raisins and chocolate drops.”

“You hate raisins.”

“But I like it when you pick them off the top.”

James let his smile land on Silver’s lips just as the doors burst open and gunshots filled the air.

———

Billy Bones was working late that night. A bit of overtime in the early hours of the morning would go a long way towards covering the recent price hike in his gym membership. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone ever came seeking fro-yo at 4:00 on a Wednesday morning.

Except, apparently, for those two guys stumbling through the door to send the little bell tinkling like it was Christmas day.

Stumbling, entwined in each other’s arms, giggling like maniacs, and both completely covered in blood.

Billy sighed.

It was going to be a long fucking night.


End file.
